


Rub Down

by purpleduvet (maga_nw)



Series: Tumblr Shorts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maga_nw/pseuds/purpleduvet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first hint Stiles gets that Derek is exhausted is when he falls face first onto his bed, leaving his bare back exposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rub Down

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from _Knew You Before_ to write some fluff. Thanks to Insomiak for editing!

The first hint Stiles gets that Derek is exhausted is when he falls face first onto his bed, leaving his bare back exposed. 

It’s not exactly a _hint_ , it’s actually pretty obvious Derek is tired and needs a shower and a good meal and Stiles knows better than to say anything but still, “You tired?”

He doesn’t even bother to hide the snark in his tone, those are his sheets Derek is caking with dirt and sweat and Stiles just did laundry like six weeks ago. Besides, he’s tired, too. He was on stakeout for most of the night, he hasn’t slept in a little over twenty hours, he hit his head on a branch running away from two vicious alphas, and that’s _his_ filthy bed.

Derek only groans in response, not even shifting to make room. Stiles scoffs as he toes off his sneakers, wrinkles his nose as he peels off his socks. He throws both his shirts with Derek’s on a small pile on the floor and walks to the foot of the bed. 

He has to admit is not a bad sight, his bed full of bulky, shirtless guy. Even if the guy in question takes up too much space for Stiles to join him and pass out for a few hours.

He slaps Derek’s foot. “Move, you big…thing.”

It is possible Stiles is too tired to form words properly. 

“I’m the weak, tiny human here, I got dibs on the bed,” he manages to say after a moment.

“You’re not tiny,” Derek replies, voice muffled by Stiles’ pillow. 

“I’m not a werewolf, either. And anyway, dogs sleep on the floor.”

Any other day, Stiles would have been facing Derek’s death glare right about now. Today, though, Derek is too comfortable to turn his head, so all he gets is another groan. 

“Just for that, I’m not moving.”

Stiles glares at Derek’s back, eyes betraying him and dropping down to Derek’s ass a second later. 

He’s not that tired, it seems. He never is.

“Fine,” he mutters to the back of Derek’s head after he’s done staring. “Don’t move, I’ll deal.”

So he climbs on Derek. 

He’s actually careful, though, because Derek did get beaten up pretty badly, and his back is probably still sore, healing super speed aside. So Stiles puts his knees on either side of him and crawls up the bed, jostling it as little as he can. 

He’s straddling Derek’s hips when he stops to assess (heh) the situation. 

Derek is tired. Derek is so tired that he should be melted into the mattress like a, like an ice-cream left out in the sun or something wittier that Stiles can’t come up with at the moment. But Derek is tense, muscles strung so tight Stiles doesn’t even have to touch them to notice. 

“Relax,” he says, poking Derek’s tattoo. There’s grime stuck to the sweat on his back. Stiles drags his finger down Derek’s spine anyway, leaving a clear trail behind. “Do you ever ease up?” 

Derek breathes, only shuddering slightly when Stiles’ finger hits the dip of the small of his back and the waistband of his jeans. 

“I bet you grind your teeth in your sleep,” he goes on, now raising his other hand and pressing his palm on Derek’s shoulder blade, pushing down until Derek unlocks his muscles with a sigh and falls a little more against the bed. “I bet you get horrible headaches and that’s why you’re so grumpy all the time.” 

Stiles kneads his thumbs on Derek’s shoulders and down his spine again, coming back up a moment later to rub at Derek’s neck. 

Derek sighs again, dropping his chin to let Stiles’ fingers scratch at the back of his head, slowly. 

He’s not sure how much time passes – Stiles zones off, hands moving all over Derek’s exposed skin, rubbing and prodding and scratching until Stiles blinks back to reality and realizes he’s grinding down on Derek’s ass.

Any other time, Stiles would stammer an apology; at least pretend he’s a little bit embarrassed. Right now, he goes with it. He picks up the pace of his hands on Derek’s back, his movements deeper and with more intent, and mimics it with his hips, face flushing. 

The tips of Derek’s ears are bright pink, and he’s as pliant as putty underneath Stiles.

The skin beneath Stiles’ hands is feverish with heat, a little damp but soft and Stiles leans down, stretching his legs on top of Derek’s and letting his fingers trail down Derek’s arms. He noses the side of Derek’s neck, rubbing his cheek against the stubble there and getting another groan out of Derek, who bucks his hips upwards slightly.

“Not so tired anymore,” Stiles says, letting his lips brush Derek’s ear. 

“Mmh,” is Derek’s response, though he turns his head to peer up at Stiles, eyes half lidded, pupils blown wide. 

It’s not often that Derek lets Stiles take over, but Stiles makes good use of every opportunity that presents itself. The memory of Derek breathless under him is what gets him through the usual dry spells – Stiles would love to meet _anyone_ who manages a healthy and exuberant sex life while keeping the kind of schedule he and Derek have. 

(Scott doesn’t count because, one, there’s only so much Stiles wants to know about his dick and what he does with it, and two, Scott probably wouldn’t let the apocalypse get between him and a good orgasm).

“You stink,” Stiles breathes, his nose pressed to the nape of Derek’s neck as his hips shudder. He smells of old sweat and only slightly of the spicy stuff he puts in his hair. Stiles likes it. “I’d propose a shower, but I sort of don’t want to get up.”

“Mmh,” Derek hums again, his hands coming up to sneak under the pillow. Stiles’ follow, blindly tangling their fingers together. Derek closes his eyes, eyelashes brushing the side of Stiles’ face.

He rubs himself against Derek, incredibly glad that he’s not wearing jeans and went with sweatpants for the stakeout and consequent chase. Derek is probably regretting his wardrobe choice right about now – Stiles is very aware of just how constricting Derek’s pants can be. That and the fact that Stiles is grinding down on him has to be uncomfortable, but Derek doesn’t protest once, just keeps relaxing further and further, occasionally making a soft sound at the back of his throat. 

Stiles rolls his hips, pressing his forehead to Derek’s shoulder and slows down, dragging the inevitable out. He’s close, his bare chest covering Derek’s back and keeping him grounded. Derek is still, breathing slow and steady. 

Taking pity, Stiles lets go of Derek’s hand and goes for his zipper. It’s not easy to put his hand between Derek and the bed, and it throws off his rhythm, but he somehow manages to unbutton Derek’s jeans and slip his fingers into his boxers.

“Dude,” Stiles stammers, hips halting to a stop. Derek isn’t even hard. “You okay?”

“Mmh,” Derek says again, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly. “Yeah.”

He pushes up, making Stiles gasp and arch down. He’s confused for a second before he gets it, and then his hand is back on Derek’s under the pillow and his mouth is trailing up Derek’s neck. He latches his teeth to Derek’s pulse point, getting a low growl (though it sounds more like a purr, not that he’s gonna mention it) in return. 

Stiles starts moving again, a lot less careful now that he knows he’s not squishing anything valuable, and it’s not long before he feels the pleasant heat pooling in his belly. Derek must sense it – or smell it, okay – because he bares his throat further, stretching his arms towards the headboard and pulling Stiles closer in the process. 

It’s the thought that Derek is just lying there, submitting completely and happy to do it – not even getting off on it, dammit – that pushes Stiles over the edge. He comes with a grunt, teeth clenching on Derek’s neck. 

He pants, open mouthed against Derek’s warm skin, his head sluggish but clear.

“Still not moving,” Derek says after a moment, his voice muffled and pleased. Stiles rubs his forehead against his shoulder, hips still nudging, slowly. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he replies. His chest is stuck to Derek’s back with sweat, and his pants are no longer comfortable – or dry. “I’m actually okay right here.”

Derek stretches, turning his head again so his mouth brushes Stiles’ temple. “Who stinks now?”

“Stop it with the sexy talk,” Stiles says around a stifled laugh. “It’s really not your forte.”

“You’d know,” Derek lets out a breath, somehow loosening up even more. 

“Shh, sleep now, banter later.”

“Mmh, just warning you that I’ll dump you on the floor as soon as your dad’s car pulls up.”

Stiles raises a knee to rest by Derek’s hip, his crotch nestles against Derek’s ass a little more comfortably and he pats Derek’s hand. “I sort of want to blow you before you go, though.” 

There’s a pause.

“Fine,” Derek mumbles, already sounding half out of it. “No dumping.”

Stiles smiles and lets sleep take over, faintly hoping he doesn’t drool on Derek but knowing he probably will.


End file.
